


Before Dawn

by undun



Series: Need You Now [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotions, M/M, Sexual Content, Third Time, best laid plans, dammit, more bargaining, mystrade, sex is still good, wtf are they?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-10-13 16:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10517112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: Mycroft wondered how long Lestrade had been awake – there was every likelihood that he’d not slept for two days. Mycroft suppressed a sigh, wishing he didn’t feel the need to monitor Lestrade as much as he did. Ever since their brief, but memorable, liaison––best to put that as far from his mind as he could.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set at the time of The Reichenbach Fall, this is the second instalment of Need You Now. It's better to read the first part before this. Back story an' all that. :)
> 
> Beta'd by the most Betarie Beta that ever beta'd, Luthien the Luscious. Any mistakes that persist after application of beta stick do so at my whim and fancy.

The morgue attendant lifted the white sheet slowly, revealing the pale, still face beneath to Mycroft’s cool gaze.

He nodded. “Yes, it’s him. It’s my brother, Sherlock.”

The attendant picked up the sheet and carefully covered the face once more. “Thank you, sir. If you could take a seat, Dr Hooper has some paperwork for you.”

“Very well.” Mycroft turned and made his way to the office. Through the glass walls he could see Molly Hooper quickly dabbing at her face with a well-used handkerchief. He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes; there was such a thing as too much verisimilitude. Mycroft took a deep, but discreet, breath and strode through the door.

_ If it were done when ‘tis done, then it were well it ‘twere done quickly. _

\---››››‹‹‹‹---

“Mycroft.” Greg Lestrade’s face was drawn and shadowed. “I’m so sorry,” he said, voice rasping.

Mycroft slowed and stopped near the exit from St Bartholomew’s Hospital. “Thank you for your sympathy, Detective Inspector,” he responded carefully.

Lestrade pushed away from the wall he had been leaning against. “No, I mean… I’m sorry. For not doing more to help him.” Lestrade’s shoulders slumped and his head dipped, his gaze now directed at the floor. “I let him down when he needed help.”

Damn, he really should have expected this. Mycroft ground his teeth together briefly – he might very well be adroit at putting different spins on the truth for a living, but lying outright to Gregory Lestrade… well, it was already proving to be quite difficult.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “It was not your fault, Gregory,” he said softly, not wanting any of the bustling staff to overhear them. “Sherlock’s reasons were always his own.”

That brought a brief, harsh burst of laughter from Lestrade and he looked up with a gallows smile. “Don’t I bloody know it!”

Mycroft tried to smile back, knowing it probably looked as much like a grimace as it felt. “Let me get you a drink,” he suggested, placing a hand on Lestrade’s elbow and gently urging him towards the doors.

“I should be–” Lestrade began, then faltered.

 

They stepped out into the early evening dimness together, Mycroft’s car, as expected, was idling at the curbside. A cordon of bobbies were keeping both the news media and the more curious members of the public away from the hospital entrance. Mycroft wasted no time walking to the car.

“I mean, he was your brother. I should be taking you for a drink,” Lestrade finally managed as Mycroft opened the rear door and beckoned him inside the car. Lestrade obeyed without protest. Mycroft wondered if he was simply moving on autopilot, the effect of shock and grief. It made it easier to manage him, he thought, with a tiny twinge of guilt.

 

As he and Sherlock had foreseen, Lestrade had been unable to prevent the suspicion that had grown around Sherlock Holmes’ authenticity, and the subsequent fallout at the Met. It would no doubt rebound on Lestrade’s standing with his superiors as well. Mycroft made a mental note to keep a watchful eye on the situation.

 

Mycroft leaned over to the intercom. “Diogenes, please Roger,” he instructed.

 

“Yes, sir,” came the driver’s tinny voice.

He slanted a look at Lestrade as the car drew away out into the traffic. The man had tipped his head back against the headrest, his eyes almost shut. Mycroft wondered how long Lestrade had been awake – there was every likelihood that he’d not slept for two days. Mycroft suppressed a sigh, wishing he didn’t feel the need to monitor Lestrade as much as he did. Ever since their brief, but memorable, liaison–

–best to put that as far from his mind as he could.

A movement caught his attention. Lestrade’s hand had slipped from his lap to the leather seat. Mycroft studied the man’s features, slack and blank with sleep; head nodding to the side with the movement of the car. Mycroft found himself smiling fondly. He wiped his expression clear, chastising himself silently. Sentiment. He had to guard against it vigilantly, now more than ever before.

 

He pressed the intercom again. “Roger, could you detour to DI Lestrade’s apartment building please?”

 

“Right away, sir.”

 

Mycroft leaned back into the leather seat and allowed himself a deep exhale. There was a funeral to organise yet, but he had a brief breathing space to rest and assist with Sherlock’s covert exit from the country. 

 

He took his mobile from his pocket and reviewed his agenda before texting some adjustments to his assistant. He moved his meetings for the next day and informed Anthea that he would be out of the office. He then sent an email to the funeral service director he’d chosen to enact the next scene of Sherlock’s untimely departure. It would be an expensive and elaborate ruse. And it was imperative that it hold up under the most intense scrutiny.

 

A sudden movement from Lestrade drew his attention. Lestrade brows were drawn into a tight frown and his lips were parted, moving slightly as he slurred, “Don’ shoot… hold f-fire…”

 

Mycroft debated the wisdom of waking him. Was it worth the risk of Lestrade reflexively swinging a fist at him if he attempted to shake him out of his dream state? Indecision stayed his hand and he kept his attention on Lestrade, ready to intervene should the situation call for it.

Within a few minutes Lestrade’s fretfulness abated and Mycroft found himself simply studying Lestrade’s face as he dozed. Being this close to the man and able to look his fill undetected was an unexpected luxury. As always he marvelled at the length and thickness of Lestrade’s dark eyelashes – the contrast with Lestrade’s silvering hair usually drew the eyes of complete strangers, as Mycroft had often been in a position to notice. A small sigh escaped his lips and Mycroft tamped down a surge of desire at the memory of Gregory Lestrade, naked and splayed on the bed in front of him, tanned, aroused and grinning like a fool.

That damned night. Trying to pack those particular memories away had proven impossible. Mycroft had finally been forced to admit that he didn’t want to have them away from ready recall. He found the sensations he experienced when he reviewed them to be delicious, and deliciously torturous.

The car slowed and pulled up outside Lestrade’s block of flats.

“Gregory,” Mycroft called, trying to gently wake him. Nothing.

He reached out a hand. “Gregory,” he called once more, shaking his arm.

“Wha’, huh?” Lestrade’s eyes snapped open, his brows climbing upwards as he took in his surroundings. “What… I fell asleep?”

“Apparently so,” Mycroft confirmed wryly.

 

Lestrade somehow managed to say ‘sorry’ through a jaw-cracking yawn.

Mycroft winced.

“I still want to get you a drink–”

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupted, “You need sleep.”

“No.” Lestrade shook his head. “Really. I don’t want to go to bed yet.”

“Very well.” Mycroft quickly reviewed his options. “Do you still have the Glenlivet?”

Lestrade’s eyebrows twitched into a brief frown before he nodded. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well?”

“Right, okay. Follow me, and try to ignore the state of my flat.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade clamber out of the car before leaning to the intercom. “That will be all for tonight, Roger. I’ll see you in the morning.”

His driver turned his head to regard Mycroft with a slight frown. His voice came through the speaker. “Sir? I’m happy to wait for you.”

Mycroft paused for a moment before replying. Roger doubled as Mycroft’s security whenever he travelled by car. Dismissing him left Mycroft without his mandatory protection. He always retained the authority to do so, of course, but recent events had his team antsy about his safety and Mycroft had seen no point to challenge their zeal. Until now. He leant forward and thumbed a button, opening the thick glass screen between the front and rear of the car.

The driver turned further to regard him with an anxious gaze.

“Roger, I appreciate your concern. However, I will be with a high-ranking member of the Met. We have already ascertained the security of his abode, and I have rated the risk as very low. I will order a taxi to return home and I will log it with the security desk.” Mycroft gave his driver a small smile. “Will that suffice to ease your unease?”

Roger ducked his head in acknowledgement. “Yes, sir.”

“Right. Be off with you and surprise your wife by being home in time for tea,” Mycroft said tersely. He paused for another second – should he? “She isn’t seeing anyone, by the way. She’s taking belly-dancing lessons. It is meant to be a… present?” Mycroft frowned at his own deduction. Really? He almost blushed.

Roger gave a startled chuckled. “Right! Thank you, sir. I will keep my mouth shut.”

“Just so.”

Mycroft got out and closed the door with a last glance at Roger through the window. People: so pointlessly sentimental.

Lestrade was leaning in the doorway of the building waiting for him. His face was truly haggard, which made absolutely no difference to his good looks, damn the man.

 

Lestrade unlocked the door and beckoned him in. “After you.”

 

The air inside was stale after being shut up for approximately... three days? Mycroft darted a fierce look at Lestrade, reevaluating the man’s level of stress and exhaustion. “You really do need to sleep, Gregory,” he advised.

 

Lestrade shrugged and moved with heavy steps to the kitchen. “Yeah, I know. I just--” He shrugged again and waved his hand in a hopeless gesture. “I think I need to distract myself, have a drink or two.”

 

He took two glasses from the kitchen cupboard and moved to the liquor cabinet. “What will you do?” Lestrade poured the scotch.

 

Mycroft stumbled mentally. “About what, precisely?”

 

“To be able to sleep. How will you be able to rest, after all that’s just happened?”

 

“Oh. I’m not sure. Perhaps I’ll finish some paperwork – I do find solace in tying up loose ends.”

 

Lestrade handed Mycroft a tumbler with a generous measure of scotch, tapping it lightly with the rim of his own. Mycroft watched as Lestrade tipped his head and drank a good half of it in one hit. The glass made a dull  _ klunk _ as he placed it clumsily on the countertop, and gave Mycroft a faintly puzzled look. “Drink up,” he ordered, his voice rough.

 

Mycroft raised a brow, letting Lestrade know that he was only humouring him as he obeyed the command. The liquor burned pleasingly as he swallowed and his eyes closed in pleasure as he savoured it.

 

“Oh, fuck.”

 

He opened his eyes to find Lestrade staring, his eyes wide and dark.  _ This is going to go badly _ , he just had time to think before Lestrade moved and grasped his head in both hands and kissed him forcefully. For long moments Mycroft could do little else other than try not to spill his drink as he allowed Lestrade to cradle his head in large, warm hands. Mycroft also allowed Lestrade to lick into his mouth, nibble gently along his lips, all while Lestrade’s whisky-scented breath gusted against his skin.

 

Lestrade staggered as he manoeuvred Mycroft until he had him backed up against the kitchen counter. Mycroft took the opportunity to place his glass out of harm’s way, leaving both hands free to grapple with Lestrade.

 

Only, he had no clear plan. And Lestrade’s mouth had moved to his neck, no doubt leaving marks as he sucked and nipped at Mycroft’s fair skin. The muscles in Mycroft’s neck began to loosen and bend just as other muscles in his body began to to tighten and straighten.  _ Damn it all! _

 

Mycroft wanted this. He wanted Gregory Lestrade. He had never  _ not  _ wanted Lestrade. It was an act of supreme self-sacrifice to keep himself from taking what he wanted so much, and at this moment he could not, for love or money, remember why he mustn't do so. His brain, his much celebrated  _ smarter  _ brain, had been reduced to maintaining a candle in the window whilst it fled south to throw petrol on the fire in his pelvis. His hands had similarly betrayed him by grasping Lestrade's buttocks through the cheap material of his trousers, hauling him in even closer to press against Mycroft’s urgent erection.

 

“God, Mycroft,” Lestrade husked, “I fucking need you, I need to fuck you.” His hips tipped up as if to verify his desire, sending a jolt through Mycroft’s limbs and surprising a sharp hiss from his mouth. Hegrabbed at Lestrade’s head, leaning to bite his earlobe in retaliation.

 

“Fucking Christ!”

 

While Lestrade gasped and swore, Mycroft manhandled him until their positions were reversed, pushing him against the counter and pulling at his shirt until he could get to Lestrade's warm, musky skin.

 

Mycroft grappled to bring clarity to his thoughts -- to impose some kind of order on the chaotic sensations that pulled him along in Lestrade's wake. Lestrade had once again opened a floodgate that would wash them away. Perhaps his metaphors were becoming somewhat confused, Mycroft frowned at the idea.

 

Lestrade slid a hand in between their bodies (Mycroft could have sworn there wasn’t room to slide a piece of paper) and tugged firmly at Mycroft’s length through the fabric of his trousers. Mycroft’s attention snapped back. He felt light-headed with arousal and pleasure and he wanted  _ more _ . Lestrade bit his neck hard enough to  _ hurt _ – his hips kicked into Lestrade’s hand.

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Lestrade growled in response, curling his fingers around Mycroft’s balls.

 

“Ah! Gregory… bedroom,” Mycroft said, hoping that his voice didn’t sound as broken as he felt. He may have left some words out.

 

They parted slightly, Lestrade still darting at his face to kiss him while Mycroft wrestled with Lestrade’s clothing, finally getting him clear of jacket and shirt. They stumbled along the hall towards Lestrade’s bedroom, pausing when Mycroft realised he had unfettered access to Lestrade’s chest. Long seconds ticked by with Lestrade’s head hitting the wall as Mycroft teased his nipples with teeth and tongue.

 

“Come up here,” Lestrade rasped. He pulled at Mycroft’s hair none too gently. Mycroft groaned and pressed his hands against Lestrade, scratching into his chest hair. He closed his eyes in pleasure. He lifted his face blindly and Lestrade found his mouth, licking into it hotly.

 

Another minute found them panting into each other’s faces. They studied each other briefly but intently. Mycroft was transfixed by Lestrade’s eyes – almost pained, wide and darker than ever…

 

“You’re going to kill me,” Lestrade growled.

 

Mycroft dipped his head slightly. “Quite likely.”

 

Lestrade choked slightly and laughed. “On the bed, Holmes!”

 

Mycroft affected an aura of calm and poise. He supposed it might be somewhat undermined by the hot flush on his neck and the disarray of his habitually neat hair. He approached Lestrade’s bed as he worked open first his waistcoat buttons, then his shirt.

 

“Stop.”

 

Lestrade came up behind him, sliding his arms around Mycroft’s waist to cover his hands and hold them still.

 

“The clothes, I–” Lestrade sighed softly, moving his hands down to cup Mycroft through his trousers again. “God,” Lestrade breathed against Mycroft's ear, sending a shudder along his spine. Lestrade unbuttoned the trousers and pulled at the zip, slowly lowering it along Mycroft's erection. “Hmmm, silk again.” Lestrade murmured happily, slipping a hand inside Mycroft's boxers.

 

“Damn,” Mycroft gasped and rolled his hips into Lestrade's hand. The touch of Lestrade's fingers was electric. Mycroft put a hand over his and pressed into it urgently, ungently…

 

“Yeah, come on--”

 

Lestrade turned Mycroft and pushed him down onto the mattress. Bending down, he lifted Mycroft's feet one at a time to take off his shoes and socks.

 

“I can undress myself, Gregory,” Mycroft observed.

 

“I'm sure you can, but this… is all foreplay for me.”

 

Mycroft made no further comment, being distracted by Lestrade’s warm hands sliding his pants down his legs and off onto the floor. He glanced down at the rumpled mess.

 

“Wrinkles-–”

 

“Fuck you if you're thinking about your ironing right now!” Lestrade growled.

 

“Apologies.”

 

Mycroft could only stare avidly while Lestrade straightened to hastily take off his clothes with complete disregard for Mycroft’s sensibilities.

 

And then Lestrade’s body was over him, caging him, and Mycroft was relishing his warm skin, his musky scent, the bristle of incipient beard and the contrast of soft chest hair. Mycroft glutted himself on the texture and smell of Lestrade, pushing his face into the man’s neck and shoulder, licking and sucking–

 

“Jesus!”

 

Lestrade wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s prick, began pumping and squeezing… nothing like Mycroft’s usual technique and therefore much more stimulating. His hips caught the counter-rhythm, rocking up as Lestrade’s hand pulled down – it was glorious and it would be over in a minute.

 

Mycroft hooked a leg behind Lestrade’s knee and flipped him over.

 

Lestrade gave a surprised grunt and smiled widely up at him. He moved both hands to catch Mycroft’s face, bringing him in close for a filthy, wet kiss. Mycroft moaned. It should be repugnant and unappealing – their mouths sliding together through so much saliva – but it just made Mycroft’s mouth water more. He rutted blindly against Lestrade’s hip, grateful for a more muted sensation than Lestrade’s canny fingers; it would not be so embarrassingly quick.

 

Lestrade made a drawn-out, obscene sound. “Oh god, please! Come on me, all over me, yeah, Mycroft–”

 

Damn the man! Mycroft’s muscles tightened, his head swam and his vision blurred–

 

–his breath stuttered to a stop

 

–the world went silent and white

 

–he came

 

Sensation came back to Mycroft slowly, one body part at a time. His vision swam back into focus: a close-up view of Lestrade’s stubbled chin and neck from where his head had fallen to Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade slowly stroked the globes of his arse and Mycroft became aware of a minute pulsing between their bodies: Lestrade’s erection politely asking for attention. Mycroft smiled at the thought, still dizzy post-orgasm. He moved his head slightly and licked at Lestrade’s collarbone. Salty.

 

Lestrade hummed, the sound travelling from his chest cavity and into Mycroft’s, and his prick gave a hopeful twitch against Mycroft's belly. Mycroft stroked a hand through Lestrade’s chest hair, finding a nipple and scratching it lightly with his nails. Lestrade made a sound something between a purr and a growl -- the man had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of expressive noises. Lestrade gave Mycroft's buttocks a squeeze and pressed down. Mycroft felt Lestrade's prick throb and slide through the mess he'd left smeared on their stomachs. Again, he expected to be repulsed -- again, he was not. He would puzzle it out later, for now, he had a man to see to orgasm.

 

After all, it was only fair.

 

\---››››‹‹‹‹---


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft sucked the skin over Lestrade’s collarbone. He was going to leave a very dark bruise. Lestrade's hands moved up to cup the back of his head. He hissed his approval and moved his fingers through Mycroft's hair.

 

“I better remember to put a tie on tomorrow,” he croaked.

 

Mycroft leaned back and studied the purpling mark. It stood out nicely against Lestrade's tanned skin. “I'm always happy to encourage a better sartorial choice, Gregory.”

 

“Listen to you, Mister Posh Suit! Hardly a great example of elegance at the moment are you?”

 

Mycroft followed Lestrade's gaze to his unbuttoned shirt. He'd forgotten he was still wearing it. “I seem to remember you insisting that I leave this on,” he murmured with a frown at Lestrade. “Do you enjoy seeing me deshabille?”

 

“Oh, yes. That I do, Mr Holmes.” Lestrade grinned at him.

 

“Ridiculous man.” Mycroft sat up and slipped his shirt off. Lestrade waggled his eyebrows. “Utterly ridiculous.” Mycroft looked down at Lestrade's undiminished erection: there was certainly nothing wrong with his circulation. Lestrade must have divined his intent because he reached an arm towards the bedside drawer.

 

“Allow me, Gregory, “ Mycroft said, leaning over to open the drawer and find the tube of lubricant he knew Lestrade kept there. He noted absently that it held the same amount as it did all those months ago. Another data point to puzzle over later.

 

Lestrade sucked in a breath as he watched Mycroft squeeze a measure of gel on his hand. Mycroft smirked down at him, grasping his length and deftly working his fingers over it.

 

“Oh, oh!”

 

Mycroft leant his weight on one hand to press Lestrade's right hip down against the bed, leaving him pinned and unable to move. It prompted a guttural noise of frustration from Lestrade -- the skin of his neck and face flushed darkly and tendons in his neck stood out as he battled to lift and thrust into Mycroft's hand. His wide hands gripped tightly along Mycroft's thighs and he panted, lips pulled back over his teeth.

 

It took some small concentration on Mycroft's part not to become aroused again. He decided to bring things to a close. The man was quite tired -- no need to exhaust him further.

 

“You're close, aren't you, Gregory? You're going to come now,”  Mycroft murmured. He increased the speed of his hand. Lestrade locked eyes with him, his expression shocked as he began to spill into Mycroft's hand. A deep sense of satisfaction bloomed in Mycroft's chest. He slowed his strokes pulling lightly as Lestrade shook and swore, and… sobbed.

 

“Gregory?” Mycroft lifted his hands away, wiping them on the bedclothes. “What is it? Are you hurt?” He moved off Lestrade's thighs and checked the man for signs of injury.

 

Lestrade shook his head and shivered. He held his arms out to Mycroft in mute appeal, tears still rolling down his face but no longer openly crying. Mycroft didn't think before lying down beside him and wrapping his arms around him. Lestrade clung to him, face pressed against his neck.

 

“I'm so sorry,” Lestrade whispered hoarsely.

 

With a disorienting jolt Mycroft remembered that Lestrade believed Sherlock had just died, and this whole encounter reeked of something called ‘grief sex’. He was considering whether he should feel used when Lestrade's arms tightened around him and he rasped, “He was your brother and I couldn't save him.”

 

It was typical of Lestrade to assume responsibility for everyone's well-being. Damn it all! What could he possibly say?

 

Mycroft moved a hand to cup the back of Lestrade's head, his fingertips rubbing through the short strands of hair. “There was nothing you could have done, Gregory. Nothing.” He pressed his mouth against the top of Lestrade's head. “This was not your fault.”

\---››››‹‹‹‹---

 

Mycroft blinked, looking around at his surroundings. The clock beside the bed read 4.42am. He hadn’t been aware of falling asleep -- a dreadful lapse in awareness and judgment. Gregory Lestrade’s warm body was pressed heavily against his under the duvet. Mycroft pressed back a sigh and silently, slowly, inched away from Lestrade. He carefully moved Lestrade's head onto the pillow. Lestrade gave a sigh but didn't awaken. He wasn't likely to for several hours, Mycroft thought. Between the physical exhaustion and the emotional toll of believing Sherlock had suicided, not to mention their recent sexual activities, it was no surprise that Lestrade had quickly dropped into a profound sleep.

 

Mycroft moved off the bed and retrieved his clothes from the floor, texting for a car to take him home. He made his way to Lestrade's bathroom and ran a flannel under the tap, waiting for the water to heat up. The drying remains of his and Lestrade's semen still did not disgust him. Interesting. He wiped the residue away and rinsed the cloth out, taking it into the bedroom to perform a quick clean up on Lestrade. The man didn't so much as twitch in response.

 

Mycroft found himself with another fatuous smile on his face. He decided it wasn't a problem -- no one was awake to see it. He dressed quickly then paused in the doorway of the bedroom, looking back at Lestrade. Giving in to an  impulse, he quickly walked back and twitched the duvet higher over the man’s shoulders.

 

_ And that’s quite enough of that foolishness, this has to be the very last time. _

 

He had to be Mycroft Holmes again.

 

He was surprised to see, not a taxi but his usual car with Roger waiting patiently to open his door. It was full dark, no hint yet of the dawn soon to come. Roger smiled at his quizzical look. “I had the security desk call me when you ordered a ride, sir,” he explained without being asked.

 

“Ah,” Mycroft nodded. “And why ever did you that?” Mycroft placed his overcoat on the seat.

 

“One good turn deserves another, sir. I simply wished for you to have the best service this morning.”

 

Mycroft nodded and entered the car, arranging his limbs and fastening his belt. He opened his briefcase and stared inside, unseeing. His heart seemed to stop beating for a few moments.

 

Wretched sentiment. It would kill him one day.

 

\---››››‹‹‹‹--- end

 


	3. Objects In the Mirror - linking ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Need You Now -- part 2(b)  
> Previously posted only to tumblr. Adding it in here for continuity before part 3.

Mycroft stepped out of the shower, glad to have ridden himself of the lingering smell (memory) of his rare bout of ‘field work’. He'd despised every second of it, and yet had not been able to trust anyone else to bring his brother out safely from his imprisonment.

 

He blotted his face with a plush, clean towel, relishing all the creature comforts that he'd had to be without for so many days. It was good to be home. It was good to have Sherlock home.

 

He towelled himself dry slowly, his mind drifting to Sherlock’s imminent rise from the ‘dead’. Mycroft frowned, thinking of John Watson and his likely reaction to the news. That would undoubtedly be a very messy event. He sighed and then spared a thought for Martha Hudson, hoping her heart was strong, as Sherlock’s predilection for dramatics was likely to mean quite a start for the poor woman when he appeared at Baker Street.

 

He drew a comb through his damp hair, frowning as some stray strands fell to the sink in front of the mirror. He paused and looked at his reflection more closely: there were tell-tale signs of physical and mental strain, there had been for some time, his hairline had been in slow retreat for the past two years. Typically, Sherlock had lost none of his abundant curls, damn him.

 

Lestrade hadn't lost any hair either.

 

Mycroft sighed. His brain had jumped the tracks again. His tendency to think of Gregory Lestrade whenever he was tired and stressed was inevitable. Mycroft was used to dealing with the pressing sensation in his chest after all this time; it hadn't always been so easy. There had been many nights that had required something alcoholic to help ease the pressure long enough for him to sleep a few hours.

 

He wondered how Lestrade would react to Sherlock’s appearance. At least the man didn't have a weak heart -- a fact gleaned from Mycroft’s subtle, non-intrusive surveillance. As was the fact that Lestrade's hair continued to cover his head adequately, although… Mycroft pondered the last image he'd seen of Lestrade.

 

He honestly didn't know whether he disliked the extremely short cut on Lestrade’s silver hair, perhaps one had to see it in person to make a valid judgement? The pressing feeling in Mycroft's chest switched suddenly to one of sinking and pulling, he staggered and gripped the edge of the sink with tight fingers. He imagined his hands in Lestrade’s hair, fondling the shortened strands, listening, rapt, to the man’s ridiculous noises of pleasure. Mycroft released his held breath in a noisy exhalation.

 

He hadn’t realised how much he’d yearned to touch Lestrade again.

 

\---››››‹‹‹‹--- end


End file.
